


Horsing Around

by BoStarsky



Series: Assorted Kylux [36]
Category: Crash Pad (2017), Logan Lucky (2017), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fantasy, Hunter Clyde, M/M, Shapeshifting, Stensland is very friendly, Western, he's a little bit horny, which makes Clyde confused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:29:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21865261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoStarsky/pseuds/BoStarsky
Summary: In which Clyde meets a horse that is maybe not-a-horse and get's confused about it.The sound that does make him turn to look, however, are the approaching hoofbeats that sound out among the trees halfway through dinner. There’s no creaking or clinking of tack but he still lays a hand on his colt and puts his back to a tree, you can never be too safe. What - or should he say who - appears in the circle of flickering light around his modest fire makes him look twice, then a third time.It’s that damn stallion.It has to be the same horse because he’s finding it hard to believe that West Virginia has suddenly become ripe with tame, chestnut stallions that like to seek out human contact just for the fun of it.
Relationships: Clyde Logan/Stensland (Crash Pad)
Series: Assorted Kylux [36]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/993903
Comments: 13
Kudos: 64
Collections: Kylux Fanworks Secret Santa 2019





	Horsing Around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sstensland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sstensland/gifts).



> Happy Holidays Sstensland! I hope you enjoy this little tale.

That damned rattlesnake. To think that after all he’s been through with that horse, from werewolves, to fairies, to Bigfoot, a god damned rattlesnake would do her in. Clyde put a bullet through that snake’s head and ate it for dinner just to get some form of revenge after he had to put down his own horse. Now he’s been left in the middle of the woodland deep in West Virginia with no horse and a long way to go back into civilisation.

He’d best get to walking if he wants to get anywhere at all. 

After saying a prayer for his loyal companion of three years Clyde hefts his saddle over his shoulder and leaves Daisy behind in her final resting place. He walks until his feet are sore and his back is aching from carrying so much weight through the rough terrain, but at least he’s not out in the desert under the baking sun, here he has cover and easy enough access to water. 

It’s been three days of walking before he sees another human soul, by then his load has gotten lighter, empty cans of beans left behind to rust. He happens upon the young man entirely by accident, following the sound of water with the intention of refilling his canteen only to find him bathing in the river. 

Now, Clyde knows from experience just how cold that water is and finds it strange how the young man doesn’t seem to be bothered in the least, singing in a melodic language where he sits in the shallow water. There’s not even a hint a shiver or a tint of blue to his skin, he looks entirely normal. Clyde isn’t willing to bet he is, so he turns his back and keeps walking, he’s not in the mood to deal with a nymph today, much less help himself to his water. He’ll find somewhere else further downstream. 

That afternoon Clyde sets up camp far enough from the river that he’s likely to be safe from thirsty predators but close enough that he has easy access. Over the fire he heats up another tin of beans, he’s starting to get real sick of them, but out here he doesn’t have the luxury of not eating them. It’s either that or starve.

With his feet sore and belly full he pulls his hat down over his eyes and leans back on his saddle to get a decent amount of sleep before sunrise, he’ll need it if he’ll be walking another stretch like he did today. 

Sleeping out in nature has always come easy for him, the soothing sounds of running water and bird song lulling him to sleep in a matter of minutes. What wakes him is equally nice and friendly, if abrupt and unexpected. 

Clyde is no stranger to being woken by fuzzy lips brushing against his face, big, loose, and bringing with them the distinct smell of cut grass. What makes it strange today is that his horse is dead, thus he comes to the potentially dangerous conclusion that there’s someone else in his camp. Someone who has a very friendly horse. 

Still playing at sleeping Clyde cracks an eye open, peering from under the rim of his hat to see if whoever brought the horse is currently around. When no one else makes their presence known he lifts the hat from his head and hangs it on the saddle horn. 

There’s a horse in his camp all right, a bright chestnut red one with a white blaze, no reigns, not even a rope. No feathers either. A wild horse wouldn’t approach him like this so they must be a runaway, which means there’s probably a settlement nearby. That’s good news right there. 

The crickets are singing and his fire is down to the embers, but it’s enough to make the strange horse seemingly glow in the moonlight. Now that he’s looking at it Clyde is sure he’s never seen a more beautiful beast, stallion, he corrects after a cursory glance. There’s a certain look in his eye that makes him stand out from any other horse he’s ever met, a deep intelligence and gentle warmth, but not a hint of the wild defiance you usually get in a strapping young stallion. He’d wager a bet that this horse is a sorely missed horse, or will be once his owner finds him gone. 

Clyde doesn’t fancy himself a horse thief but he’s been walking for two days and there are blisters on his feet, what harm can it do if he rides a tame horse back into the town it probably came from, maybe even get a finders fee. It can’t be far, an hour or two on horseback, hardly a dent in his planned out course. 

Roping the stallion is as easy as can be, the horse watching with those bright eyes as the blanket is laid over his back and the saddle follows. He even takes the bridle without complaint, only nosing curiously at Clyde’s silver hook where his left hand should be. It had been a choice between a slow death from a chupacabra bite and one less hand, he chose the less painful route and hacked it off.

He never chose to become a hunter like he is, he fell into it entirely by accident. The chupacabra that took his hand had ended his career in the army, left him hungry and cold with a talent for killing, but no stomach for killing people. It wasn’t until he came across people having their own troubles with the creatures no one wants to believe in that things started to look up. It’s a lot easier to shoot a ravenous beast than a man given a rifle and told to kill anyone wearing blue. 

So he’s carved himself out a niche in the bounty hunter business that no one’s thought to do before him. The money isn’t pouring in but he earns enough to get by. 

With his bedroll tied to the saddle and the bags slung over the stallion‘s toned flanks Clyde puts his foot in the stirrup and pulls himself up into the saddle. The stallion blows the air out his nose and that’s the only protest he’s had so far. It becomes apparent pretty quick that there isn’t much by way of steering on this horse, he goes wherever he likes and hardly ever in a straight line, veering off Clyde’s chosen path to nibble on a bush or scratch his behind on a tree. He even seems to deliberately go under the lower branches that force Clyde to fold over in every which direction to avoid getting hit. As tame as he is he clearly has a mind of his own. 

One hour turns into two turns into three, the hand on his pocket watch moving along while the moon makes her way across the sky. Another three quarters and it’s looking pink in the distance. 

Then the stallion keeps being his unique self and does something Clyde hasn’t seen before, at least not while still  _ on  _ the horse - he sits down. Right where they are he stops on a dime and sits himself down. That’s it then, Clyde figures, time to camp up and get some more sleep. He’ll continue on in the afternoon. 

Setting up doesn’t take long, and he makes sure to give the stallion a proper brushing, cleaning off the seeds and brambles, none of which have left a mark in his pristine coat. What a strange horse indeed, if Clyde didn’t know better he’d say the stallion is the kind of thing he’s hunting, but from where he’s standing there’s nothing wrong, just a well bred horse.

A well bred horse with a penchant for escaping it would seem because by the time Clyde wakes up the stallion is gone. Out of curiosity and hope that he’s just wandered off a bit he follows the hoof marks to the nearby river where they simply vanish and don’t reappear on either bank. 

It’ll be back to walking then - shame.

His feet are grateful at least, the night having given them a break from the endless trudge through the thick forest where he’s bound to come upon human life sooner or later. All he can hope is that whoever it is isn’t aggressive. In all honesty he’d be more worried to see white skin than paint and feathers, the Shawnee have never given him any grief before. Maybe if he’s lucky he’ll run into some and be able to barter himself a horse in exchange for honest labour, he’s in no rush to go anywhere, his siblings can wait a few more days. 

Seeing as it’s already afternoon he cracks open a can of strawberries to have as lunch before heading back to the river to refill his canteen. Somewhere along this river he’s bound to find something. Though as he hefts his saddle over his shoulder he can’t help thinking about that nymph he saw. Out here in the wild it’s anyone’s game, he could be led astray by unknown variables most people brush off, even the horse from last night could have been sent to take him away. Then again that nymph is the only sign of such things he’s seen for days, most of them preferring to live peacefully away from humans. Clyde can’t blame them, he prefers it that way too. 

Alas, it’s not to be. His current destination being Charleston where his siblings have demanded he return for a rare visit; as much as he loves them he wishes something would hold him up so he won’t have to spend more time in the city than he absolutely has to. At least he can hide out in the back of Mellie’s tea parlour as much as he needs to, there no one can look at him with disgust or pity, scoff at his overgrown hair and worn duster. He’s never much liked “civilised society”. Give him a pissed of fairy and he knows how to deal with it, give him a society lady to entertain and he’ll turn tail and run, and if that makes him a coward, so be it. 

By the time the sun sets everything is starting to look the same and Clyde isn’t entirely sure if he’s gotten anywhere at all even if he has been following his compass. He’s yet to see another human, but he has heard the occasional rustle in the underbrush, which could be one of the Shawnee keeping an eye on him, or just a critter or two. Either way he’s still in one piece and that’s alright. 

The sound that does make him turn to look, however, are the approaching hoofbeats that sound out among the trees halfway through dinner. There’s no creaking or clinking of tack but he still lays a hand on his colt and puts his back to a tree, you can never be too safe. What - or should he say who - appears in the circle of flickering light around his modest fire makes him look twice, then a third time. 

It’s that damn stallion.

It has to be the same horse because he’s finding it hard to believe that West Virginia has suddenly become ripe with tame, chestnut stallions that like to seek out human contact just for the fun of it. 

“Hey there, boy,” Clyde croons, getting up from his patch of grass near the fire to greet the horse he’s now sure isn’t your regular garden variety horse. He can only hope he’s not walked himself into a fae trap of some sort. The stallion nickers, nosing into Clyde’s offered hand with comfortable familiarity. “Where’d you come from?” 

He knows better than to let fae creatures know he’s onto them, the results of that are always unpredictable and rarely good. What he is going to do is rope him with the lasso threaded through with blessed silver and tie him down for the night, see what happens in the daytime. 

Usually trapping fae and cryptid creatures is a lot of work, the damn things are tricky and there’s a good reason why most people hire him to do it instead. Trapping this horse is the easiest time he’s ever had of it, he practically sticks his head through the loop of his lasso all on his own, either he must be stupid or he’s just a well trained horse with an eccentric personality. Clyde is personally hoping for the latter so he can keep borrowing him to spare his own feet. 

He ties the stallion up to a tree for now, offering up a handful of the horse feed filling one of the pockets on his duster in a hopeful sign of peace and continued friendly ness. Then he brings out the shackles - heavy iron ones for those instances where silver doesn’t work. The reward he gets for clasping them around the stallion’s front legs is a hoof in the back, a solid kick that sends the air rushing from his lungs in a mighty gust. He’s caught on then. 

Even so, that horse won’t be going anywhere, not while tied to a tree with two of his legs shackled together. Clyde offers him another handful of feed as an apology, deciding to keep a safe distance if the stallion shows further hostility. There’s a despondent look in his eyes, like he’s resigned himself to being captured, more sad than angry that Clyde betrayed his trust. 

Clyde isn’t sure how to feel about his own remorse in the situation. So he doesn’t, he finishes his sickly sweet strawberries in syrup by the dying fire, trying not to give any thought to the fae creature behind him, even when he whines and digs at the ground, short chain clinking with the movement. 

Eventually the stallion gives up, laying down with a mighty huff and putting his nose to the ground. Clyde finds it harder to ignore his own feelings on the matter. “You can go in the morning,” he starts out, more or less crawling the short distance to where the horse has made himself comfortable. “I’m just wanting to know what you are so I can make sure you ain’t gonna be hurting nobody.” The only reply he gets is a snort, it’s better than a kick in the back, he reckons. 

Knowing that it could be a bad idea Clyde runs his hand over the Stallion’s side, feeling the smooth hairs and solid muscle, admiring how he seems to shine in the warm light of the fire. Every flicker of orange just lights him up, setting his red mane ablaze and turning his body to smooth copper. He’s so beautiful it hurts, and it gives Clyde the distinct feeling that he’s looking at something he’s not supposed to see. To think all of it will probably be gone in the morning is a shame; thought it would be a relief of sorts for it would confirm that he’s not lost it and started lusting after horses. 

Clyde has always preferred to ride “ _ stallions”,  _ though usually in a bed and paid for, he's also spent the last three months wandering from place to place. Being a traveller is lonely, that’s just the way it is when you don’t have a set place you call home. You live off of fleeting connections that rarely last longer than a few weeks of travelling along the same stretch, and even rarer happenings of feeling the touch of bare skin. As long as it’s been he’d like to think it hasn't been long enough for him to start looking at the wildlife in a different light. If he has it’s about time he paid a visit to a certain establishment in Charleston to rid himself of the notion. 

But for now he ought to get as much rest as he can for if the horse really does turn out to not be a horse he’ll have another long day of walking ahead of him. God damned rattlesnake. 

What inspired him to use the stallion as a pillow Clyde can’t rightly say, warmth perhaps, the comfort of being next to another living, breathing creature. No matter the reason he feels safe where he’s propped up against the horse’s side and finding it to be a vast improvement over the unyielding leather of his saddle. 

His hopes that the stallion might be a normal horse decrease even more when those intelligent eyes look at him with sorrow as he takes off his prosthetic limb. He’s had it for a few years now, the wood, metal, and leather worn by use and life on the outskirts of society. For as long as it took him to get used to the damned thing he doubts he could do without it today. And now he’s being pitied by a damn horse who busses his ear with soft fuzzy lips before licking his cheek. Clyde can’t find it in himself to be mad about it. 

That night he falls asleep snug and warm with his head resting on a toned shoulder and a notion that whatever happens it’ll turn out alright. 

Though when he wakes up to chirping birds and the sun breaking through the canopy he’s not sure what to think anymore. Gone is the stallion, the solid presence he fell asleep with replaced by a more man sized, well, man. His first thought is that this might be a werewolf kind of situation, or a selkie of some sort, maybe even a centaur, though he’s never met one of those that could turn into either horse or man, they’ve always been both. No this is something different. He could be a nymph but they usually turn into the element of their making so the remaining option would be a spell, a curse, or a type of fae he hasn’t encountered before. 

The man in question is long, thin, and sporting a shock of copper hair, he’s very familiar for some reason. Then it hits him, it’s the same man he’d seen in the creek that day, the one he’d written off as a nymph. Thank the lord he hadn’t looked closer because he’s sure he wouldn’t have been able to just walk past the most beautiful man he’s ever seen. 

The cuffs come off with a squeak of metal and he makes a note to oil the hinges, the rope that hangs loose around his neck comes off much easier. It might be a dumb thing to do, yet he still does it, part of him not able to bear the thought of tying this creature down for another minute. 

“You can call me Clyde,” he blurts out once he manages to tear his eyes away from all that pale skin he has no right to be staring at in the first place. After a beat of silence he offers his hand. 

The man stares at him right back, green eyes looking him over from his wind blown hair and overgrown goatee, to the worn out duster covering the holster on his hip. “Stensland,” he says at long last, furrowing his golden brows at the offered hand. 

Right, he probably isn’t familiar with human customs.

“It’s nice meeting you, Stensland. You’re free to go now.” Clyde makes a gesture at the trees bordering the little clearing they’re in, sitting back and keeping his hand where it can be seen. 

He’s expecting Stensland to flee, to get as far away from him as he possibly can, but the fae just sits there and stares, it makes Clyde uneasy, as if any moment a root is going to burst out of the ground and run him through. Then Stensland moves closer and Clyde sits very still. 

He hadn’t been expecting the fae to grab his sleeve either, the left one where the end of it is hanging off the remains of his forearm. Bit by bit he folds it up, then the shirt underneath until the scarred stump is exposed to the damp morning air. The hairs on his arm rise at the sudden change in temperature, the flesh pimpling in the cold. 

Not moving a single muscle he watches the fae run a finger along the uneven scar marking the place where he mutilated himself for the sake of living, he leans in. Clyde stops him before he can do whatever he’d been planning to do. “I don’t want no debt,” he protests, taking anything from a fae is bad news, really he shouldn’t even have given Stensland his name. 

“But, you let me go?” Stensland whines and Clyde makes note of the thick Irish accent that rolls over his tongue so well. “I don’t want to have any fucking debt either.” The oddity of heating a fae curse brings a quirk to the corner of Clyde’s mouth. 

Stensland is like no other fae he’s ever met. 

“Can I come with you then? You could even ride me at night, I don’t need to sleep for days at a time,” he pleads, looking up at him with those glittering eyes.  _ He’s in trouble now.  _ “I don’t have anywhere to go, they cast me out cause I like humans and I’m fucking sick of being alone.” This is definitely a new tactic Clyde hasn’t heard before. “Please.”

“Why me?” 

“Because I liked you when I saw you walk past, you felt nice, the woods didn’t mind you, and you left me alone.”

“You want to come with me on account of me leaving you be?” This is getting weirder by the minute and Clyde is starting to think he’s the one who ought to skedaddle. 

“Yes!”

Something is happening here and Clyde isn’t entirely sure what. They’ve got to be on different tracks because this makes no sense to him, but Stensland is looking at him with those bright eyes and before he knows it Clyde finds himself agreeing, “Alright.”  _ Damn it all to hell.  _

The glowing smile Stensland gives him makes it all worth it, even more so when he squirms his way up to Clyde, pulls him into a hug and lands a proper wet smack on his cheek, not unlike his great aunt. Only the fae doesn’t stop there, he moves along, placing soft little kisses over the seam of Clyde’s lips and around to his other ear. What in the world has he just brought into his life?


End file.
